Love is a Squirtle From Hell – A Bukowski Story

The landlord was a crooked Gypsy woman with a scarred face. She was nice enough. Let me pay my rent in Zubats. Figured she ate them, but that’s Paris.

I ran out of Pokèballs a week before payday. Last thing you want is to punch a snake bigger than you are until it’s unconscious in an alley behind a bistro that serves everything burnt, but life can be a real bastard sometimes. The few candies I had left were stashed under my bed in a shoe box, probably eaten by some miserable scavenger who scuttled out of the walls the minute my door shut. Not the Rattata – we had an uneasy alliance. They would swarm my floors while I slept, searching for scraps of whatever stale meal I’d eaten earlier. I didn’t interrupt them, and they left my gin alone. We weren’t so different – all of us doing what we could to survive – and I would tell them this in shrieking desperation between pulls of Oddish hash until the walls would spin long enough to put me out for the night.

I could have gotten an advance from Vidl, the angry Russian at the docks who paid me under the table for work no sane man would take. But he’d become even more angry, spurred on by a nasty breakup with a Jynx who didn’t understand monogamy, and had taken to threatening anyone who came too close with a harpoon he used as a crutch. Years later I heard he had died picking a fight with some villainous youths outside of a strip club, burnt to death by a Charmander while reaching for a Great Ball he kept stuffed in his top hat. Turns out it was empty. No surprise. He lived like a Kingtos but died like a Krabby, smoldering on a concrete grill for a sea of impassive faces. We all wasted so much time trying to protect ourselves from devastation. Denouncing the evils of truth and love.

They romanticize this life in pulpy magazines and stage shows. Free spirits, wandering artists, lost lovers Poli-whirling the edges of society with a rose in their hair and a flask in their jacket.

So here’s your final act: Your lead character, crouched in a gutter and sharing cigarette butts with a talking cat. In between drags he eyes the gold coin growing from his friends forehead and tries to remember which pawn shops he hasn’t been banned from yet. A Pokemon Gone.
Bukowski and Meowth

Brandon

Brandon

Brandon - or Maultavius, as he's known in the Secret Order of the Ancient Magicks - is a 73rd class wizard with a penchant for the schools of Conjuration and Transmutation. His best works are illustrated wherever you see something truly unsettling and out of place on the Material Plane.

He likes long walks off of short piers (usually tricking some lust-ridden damsel to her watery demise while he surreptitiously activates his ring of water walking), and drinking copious amounts of coffee out of his most favoritest kitty mug (may it rest in peace). When he's not showboating his arcane prowess, he spends an inordinate amount of time cataloging and researching tirelessly for each and every episode of Dueling Ogres. Really. No, he really does. I promise.
Brandon

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Author: Brandon

Brandon - or Maultavius, as he's known in the Secret Order of the Ancient Magicks - is a 73rd class wizard with a penchant for the schools of Conjuration and Transmutation. His best works are illustrated wherever you see something truly unsettling and out of place on the Material Plane. He likes long walks off of short piers (usually tricking some lust-ridden damsel to her watery demise while he surreptitiously activates his ring of water walking), and drinking copious amounts of coffee out of his most favoritest kitty mug (may it rest in peace). When he's not showboating his arcane prowess, he spends an inordinate amount of time cataloging and researching tirelessly for each and every episode of Dueling Ogres. Really. No, he really does. I promise.